A Series of I Do's
by Calisian
Summary: True love will follow you forever, and it is worth everything. Fluff, RH, HG, BF, LJ...
1. Being Normal

**A/N: **This is exactly what it sounds like--not nessecarily the weddings themselves, but the stories of devotion between one person and another. I plan to go through all my favourite HP ships eventually. Bill and Fleur just needs to be first. It'll be our first canon wedding, so we might as well enjoy a bit of it now.

It was also the easiest to write. I always liked Fluer, from to outrrrrageous! accent, to her arrogance. And I always knew that she would hook up with Bill, from that first moment she saw him. But, to my surprise, I found that a lot of people did not like her--it was understandable of course, but I was so glad for her retribution in HBP. She truly loves 'er Biiill, and always will.

Ah, gotta love HP canon. Anyhow, the time frames on these little vignette's of a sort will be... everywhere. Some will be long, some will be short, some will mention names, and some you'll just have to figure out for yourself . The point of these is to celebrate what I love most about Harry Potter and, let's face it, what I love best about ANY series (be it TV, Book, Comic, or Movie): Love.

So enjoy! You're all invited to the weddings of...

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**A Series of I Do's**

Part I: _Being Normal_

She knew she looked beautiful—she always did. But this morning, this particular morning, Fleur knew she needed to look beyond spectacular. She knew she needed to look perfect. She also knew that Bill wouldn't care if she walked down the aisle in a Niffler suit, but for Fleur her appearance had always been one of her highest priorities.

As a matter of fact, before she met Bill, it had been her only priority. It had been her only real friend for a long time. She was ashamed to admit the things her beauty had made her. Fleur's vanity and narcissism had convinced her that everyone was jealous, and that she could trust no one.

She could not really be blamed. All her life from the age of nine on men had thrown themselves at her—she was their "very vision of a princess," she was their "goddess." One could only blush away so many comments before they began to work their way under her skin. It was only a matter of time before she believed them.

And then it went beyond believing. Those comments which had made a young girl smile were no longer good enough for her. Her beauty, she esteemed, was far beyond anything those men could dream of deserving. She could do far better than any of _them._ She was arrogant at the age of 10, snubbing any man who would pay her any attention. She laughed at them, and she goaded them, and she might have continued in that fine manner were it not for the curse of age: puberty.

Suddenly, what she had treated with such disdain before became her power. She understood that she could get men to do anything she wanted, just by smiling, just by pressing forward the steadily growing chest, just by walking and shifting her ass they way they liked. She could flaunt, tease, and work all she required out of them. She had power. And for almost six years, that was enough for her.

Fleur loved her mother, but she had never seen eye to eye on the subject of Fleur's father. She never understood just what her mother meant when she spoke about him. When Fleur was younger, her mother would show her pictures: pictures of her wedding day, pictures of her father at her birth. Fleur could not see why someone as gorgeous as her mother would have been with someone so… not.

Fleur's father had died one year after Gabrielle was born, but Fleur barely remembered him. He had only been in her life for five years. She could remember little things, enjoying when he came home, enjoying when he tickled her stomach, but from then on memories faded.

Her father was a plain man with a thin moustache and glasses. He was not as tall as her mother, not as graceful. Her mother told her that he was one of the smartest wizards in the land and one of the bravest. But Fleur had never understood. She did not see what her mother saw in such a humble fellow, and, more importantly, Fleur could never see herself falling in love with and marrying a man like that.

Until one day she knew exactly what her mother had meant. Fleur could not explain the sudden rush of knowledge, but she could pin-point the moment and the person she was with when it hit her. She was almost 17, and she and her boyfriend were together on the couch. He wasn't really her boyfriend—he was an object, an item. Something that she was using at that moment to relieve her teenage sexual frustrations. He was a boy who she allowed to touch her and feel her; and she didn't care about him.

It was the moment that he was done that she felt it. She had a trouble identifying the sudden feeling of emptiness. Where had it come from? Was she not as satisfied as she thought? She shoved him off by habit, saying she was tired, and rolled over on the couch, feeling miserable. And then she knew: she wanted to be held. She wanted to be treated special, not because she was beautiful, but because someone truly and honestly thought she was special. Fleur dissolved into tears, and knew that, at least now, she could identify with her mother, for Madame Delacour had found love amongst a sea of fools, while Fleur had been swept away in them.

But old habits were hard to break. She knew what she wanted now, but didn't know how to achieve it. She tried in vain to find some sort of solace in the boy she was with at the time, but none came. Nor did any come afterwards. Fleur suddenly began to feel that it would never come, for she couldn't find anyone who would treat her as a human, not an object. After a few months hopeful dating, Fleur's newly found heart began to turn, and she became bitter. If no one would love who she was, then she would love no one. Men were a game all over again. Not a game of fun, but a game of causeless revenge. She became a cruel temptress who lured men in and broke their hearts. They were all handsome, every one of them. And she felt nothing.

And then she saw Bill.

He was standing with Harry Potter and a plump, good-humoured looking woman at Hogwarts. After one quick glance, she saw that Bill was exactly her type. He was handsome and, from the lack of a ring on his finger, very available—at least available for all her intents and purposes. She at once set herself into 'go' mode—she fluttered her eyelashes, gazing at him over her mother's shoulder.

Fleur didn't know why she did it—try to draw in men (and succeed) with whom it was possible that they could have been happy, possible that they might have had a long-standing relationship. She knew it was wrong, and certainly not good for her, but she couldn't stop. She was driven by some tainted Cupid with poisoned arrows. Besides, she would reason eventually, they never passed her test.

She knew that she gave them no chance. A beautiful girl showing interest in any man will grab his attention, and they were drawn like moths to a flame. All had followed this pattern. Everyone had walked into her clutches.

But Bill never looked back.

He never looked _once_ in her direction, even though she was doing everything in her womanly power to gain his notice. Even when he walked past her out the door, he was still devoted to the conversation he held with the Potter boy and his mother. He never saw her.

And she knew that he was the one.

Fleur smiled at herself in the mirror. The dress was beautiful. It was white and fitting, high fashion and perfect against her creamy white skin. Her teeth flashed back in her reflection, and, as she put the last final touches on her makeup, she stepped back for examination.

For the first time in her life, as Fleur took notice of everything in her appearance, she found to her surprise that she didn't care. Because Bill didn't care. He loved _her_. He loved who she was, the way she laughed, the way she cried, and the way she pouted. He loved to tease her, he loved to mock her vanity, and he loved to tweak her nose then sweep in for a kiss afterwards. He loved her, and she, more than anything, loved him.

And today she was marrying him.


	2. Understanding Why

**A/N: **And now, the much awaited and ever loved R/H...

I suppose now's a good time to mention that I sure as hell didn't create these folks... sure as hell wish I did though. Yay for JK Rowling!

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A Series of I Do's 

Part II

_Understanding Why_

"You ready, mate?"

The red-head looked across at his expression reflected back in the mirror, which had anything but readiness written on it. "Gonna hafta be, won't I?"

His companion laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. She won't run off on you or anything, if that's what you're afraid of."

Ron's completely horror-stricken face led Harry into even deeper laughter. "I'm sorry, sorry—hey—you're tie's crooked."

Harry reached over and nudged it a bit, then stepped away. There was an awkward sort of silence between them, until Harry muttered "Aw-the-hell-with-it," and swept Ron up into a hug.

After a moment and several heart-felt claps on the other's back, they stepped away from one another and looked elsewhere, finding excuses in the room for the motioning of hands under the eyes and nose. They smiled at each other, Harry once again patting Ron's back. "I'm so happy for you, Ron. For both of you."

Ron was still too emotional to speak, and he just nodded. Harry gave another grin to the groom, and then motioned to the door. Ron shook his head, loosening his throat to say "No, you go ahead, I need a minute."

Harry grinned, a bit of playfulness rising again to his voice. "Now Ron, after all this time it would be dreadfully rude of _you_ to run off…though I could understand why she would…"

Ron made a rude gesture and Harry left laughing. "So much for my best man," Ron muttered with a morose grin. He turned again to look in the mirror. Many times he had done this today, countless before—though there were a few appearance examinations which stood out in his head. He grimaced at the memory of that horrid suit he had to wear to the Yule Ball—that stupid lace, all moldy and rotten, and that stupid git, stealing his girl…

Ron allowed himself a smirk. Look who got her _this _time, though. And this time's for keeps. Ron sighed. He really was a prat. All this time, and he still hated Viktor Krum for just moving faster than he did. He wasn't the fastest Seeker in the world for nothing, he thought. Still, he couldn't help but feel a ridiculous, masculine sort of pride that he had won her in the end. She had told him often lately that Viktor had never really mattered, at least never as much as _he _had, but that only prodded the manly ego. He, cave-man, had won cave-woman! Ug!

Ron stared at himself. Ugh. He really was the world's biggest prat. And that thought only brought him back to his present worry—not that she would leave, but why she would stay.

He spotted a speck of fuzz on his left shoulder and flicked it off. Had he known what a wonder it was to have his best girl for his girlfriend, he would never have been such a bloody fool all those years ago. He regretted how long it took for him to wise up—to understand that it wasn't crazy to be in love with his best friend—to not be afraid anymore of what he wanted. In that last year in the battle against Lord Voldemort, he finally stepped up.

He would be foolish to say it was only his actions which revealed a certain affection. He still marveled at the memory of the first brush of her hand across his cheek, his heart still pumped like mad when he remembered the way she had looked into his eyes. He remembered the way she would find reasons to touch him, and he would find reasons to touch her. Just being near her would give him comfort in those callous times. But his strongest memory of that year, almost stronger than the moment they defeated Voldemort himself, was the first moment she let him hold her.

It wasn't the same as their embrace at Dumbledore's funeral—this was just a pure moment. She had come back late from patrol. He could see the ghosts in her eyes, the tiredness etching itself over her face. She had stopped at his seat by the fire, and he had simply reached his hand up to her and pulled her down beside him. She sighed against his skin, and within an instant fell asleep.

Why? Why on earth would such an amazing creature let _him, _Ronald Weasley—the boring, insensitive, unintelligent Ronald Weasley—why would he ever be allowed to touch, _hold _Hermione Granger, the greatest witch of their time?

No, he thought. TheGreatest Witch of _all_ time. She's bloody perfect. "And she's marrying me."

Ron shook his head in wonderment. He knew very well the own opinions he had of himself were not what she saw—she saw the world in him. She had told him so, one night as they lay together in his bed. She had looked at him through the dark and said, "Ron, I see the world in you." He knew she would scold him if she heard him say the things he thought of himself.

She had even begun to have an effect on him. Maybe he wasn't just the tag-along. Maybe he did have a purpose. He ran his hand through his hair, staring across, now not really seeing his reflection. She made him feel better about himself. She made the impossible possible. He had known that for a long time, but had been guaranteed the truth in their first kiss.

The day after they defeated Voldemort, as they took their rest in St. Mungo's, he remembered looking to her bed next to his and seeing her awake and looking back at him. His legs had then taken their own control. He somehow crawled over to her bed and asked, in a rather stupid fashion, if she would like to go out with him sometime. She then burst out sobbing (which frightened him quite a bit), and he thought he had done something wrong when she reassured him that yes, she would love to.

She would love to.

The next day he stood in front of the hospital mirror, just like he was today, only then a little worse for the wear. He had grimaced at his black eye and the bruised cuts and slices in his skin. At least he was alive—alive so he could do what he had never dared to do before. He then turned to find Hermione, looking tired but still wonderful with her bushy, un-brushed hair, and he held out his arm to escort her to the café upstairs.

They had had coffee. They did not say much. But they looked at each other, and smiled. Then Hermione leaned over, took his hand, and said, "I'm glad we're alive to do this, Ron."

"I'm glad we are too."

Her eyes began to fill up with tears, but she smiled, "I'm glad Harry's alive, Ron."

"I'm glad he is too."

"And…" she choked a bit, but said, as she leaned forward even further still, "I'm glad I didn't ever have to regret not doing this…"

She closed the gap between them…and kissed him.

It was quick, soft, and so mind blowing that Ron couldn't remember it happening except for the heavy awareness that it _had._ And when she pulled away and he stared across at her, eyes and mouth wide open, all he could say was. "I'm glad too."

Ron ran his fingers through his hair again, pulling on it, giving it a windswept look, parting it, shaking it up… he wished his hair was like Hermione's. She didn't have to do anything to it and it looked perfect—it was her hair—no one else could wear it and look anything proper. There was nothing else that fit her. It was wild, crazy, and mental—all the darling traits of his most darling girl.

Soon to be his most darling wife.

And in that second all his nerves fell away. His hands fell from his hair, and a smile came to his lips. Hermione would be his _wife_. The woman he loved _loved him back_. For some wild reason, she loved him back. The crazy, genius, bossy, brave, beautiful woman loved him back, and he loved her.

For now and forever.

Mrs. Hermione Granger—no—Mrs. Ronald Weasley—Hermione Weasley.

Hermione Weasley.

My Hermione.

"Ron?"

Harry popped his head back in. "It's now or never my friend."

Ron turned and smiled. "It's now."

And he followed his best friend out the door of his attic bedroom, down the stairs of the Weasley house, and out into the bright sunshine of his wedding day.


End file.
